Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Tiger, sitting on the Washington, interrupted with instructions for the fantasy intercept, “211 come south to 195, your bogey 193 for 40 miles, angels unknown.”

  “Roger, 211, south.”

  “Shit,” Wink said. “I wish we didn’t have to keep talking to him. Come port harder, Trey,” he said, trying to run the intercept off the E-2C data link symbols.

  “207 as the bogey, come north to 014.”

  “207, Roger,” Sedge replied to Tiger, feeling the same frustration and mounting adrenaline party that Wink was experiencing.

  “Hard port!” Wink said suddenly. “Bogey, left ten o’clock, slightly high, descending left turn. There are two coming toward us, and two more after the F-15s!”

  Woods threw the stick to the left and rolled the F-14 on its side. He pulled the nose of the airplane toward the MiG-23 Flogger. He sucked the pure oxygen out of the rubber mask as his body readied for the G forces it knew were coming. He checked their speed. Four hundred fifty knots. The MiG still didn’t see him. He pulled 7 Gs to get the nose of the F-14 onto the MiG three miles away.

  “Break right!” Big yelled over the front cockpit radio.

  Woods immediately slammed the stick in the opposite direction and came back to the right. He saw the MiG-23 Big had seen. It was accelerating toward them. Suddenly a large missile flew off the MiG and headed their way. Woods turned into the missile, rolling the F-14 over on its back. He pulled toward the ground, hoping the missile would lose them in the ground clutter, praying it was a radar-guided missile.

  In heading toward Woods the MiG-23 had turned right in front of Big. Big pulled gently left and put his pipper on the MiG. He listened for the growl of the Sidewinder, then heard it, louder and louder as the seeker head on the missile acquired the heat signal from the MiG. The MiG made it easy by staying in afterburner as he went after Woods.

  Big squeezed the trigger on the stick and the Sidewinder flew off the wing rail toward the MiG. It was there in seconds. It hit the Flogger in the tail. The exploding warhead cut the tail off and the MiG fell toward the ground. Big looked away quickly for other bogeys, and didn’t see the MiG pilot eject from the wreckage.

  The missile streaking toward Woods pitched over and headed for the earth.

  Woods rolled his wings level and checked around. There were no airplanes in front of them or to their right. “Where is everybody?” he asked Wink.

  “211, your bogey is 190 for 39, angels 17.”

  “Judy,” Wink transmitted quickly. Damn it. “They’re all behind us. We’ve flown through most of the fight,” he said, holding his hand up to block the sun on his screen. “About three miles behind us.”

  Woods started a hard right turn, and Big, reading his mind, started his own left-hand turn; they passed each other close aboard to clear the other’s tail, and headed back in the other direction.

  “I wish we could turn our radar on,” Woods said, squinting through the windscreen.

  “No way,” Wink replied. “This E-2 picture is good enough.”

  “I sure hope these Israelis don’t mistake us for a MiG-23. We both have wings that sweep.”

  “That would be bad,” Wink agreed. “Fox, two, set up another one.”

  “Roger, 211. Head north as the bogey, 207, south as the fighter.”

  “207.”

  “211.”

  “This is incredible,” Woods said as they headed southeast toward the F-15 fight that was continuing. There were missile contrails and smoke everywhere, white ribbons that cut across the sky in every direction. “Tallyho!” he cried. “Wink, I’ve got at least six bogeys. We’re way outnumbered.”

  “Let’s get back into position behind the Eagles,” Wink said, looking for the F-15s that were to drop on the Sheikh.

  “Roger that. I’ve lost them,” Woods said, scanning the blue sky to his east. He jammed the stick left and right, checking for bogeys anxiously, not feeling at all comfortable about the way this was going.

  “MiGs!” Wink yelled. “Left nine o’clock low. Come port hard!”

  “No! The fight is to our right! We’ve got to support Chermak.” Woods jerked the F-14 into a hard right turn and followed Chermak, who was now pulling up from the arid desert floor into his pop-up maneuver. Woods looked past the F-15 and saw the town. The F-15s formed up into a nearly vertical position as the one-thousand-pound laser-guided bombs came off gently heading up, away from the ground in a graceful arc. The F-15s continued up as the bombs flew off in their lobbed trajectory toward the building in Dar al Ahmar that was being lased by two separate F-15 laser designators simultaneously.

  Woods watched the bombs fly with fascination. “That Sheikh will never know what hit him.”

  22

  Ricketts was startled when a man he didn’t recognize ran into the shop with a frenzied look on his face yelling something incomprehensible. “What?” Ricketts asked in Arabic.

  “Big plane battle near. They’re heading this way! Come and see!”

  The shop owner looked at Ricketts as if to ask whether they should go outside.

  “We’ve got to stay here,” Ricketts said gravely, annoyed that the shopkeeper would even consider leaving the shop at this critical point in the operation. He stared at the owner, who understood and tried to find something to keep him busy until the Sheikh showed up. Any minute now.

  Chermak’s one-thousand-pound laser-guided bomb slammed into the Honda trailer Ricketts had driven so carefully to the right spot. The explosion, like a huge car bomb, detonated the C4 explosives that lined the inside of the van. Ricketts had set the van up to create the much needed diversion while he and the Sheikh disappeared into another section of buildings. His group was waiting to secret them out of Dar al Ahmar in a highly detailed and rather brilliant plan, at least Ricketts thought so. The guards and supporters of the Sheikh would be left to sort through the rubble and confusion for days after the Sheikh was out of the country and on his way to justice. As it turned out, Ricketts only had three-one-thousandths of a second to realize that his van had exploded at exactly the wrong time. The second American-made laser-guided bomb landed directly on the roof of the single-story building and penetrated right to the floor between Ricketts and the owner of the shop before exploding with all its force.

  “Yes!” Woods said into his mask as he saw the explosions in Dar al Ahmar some six miles away. He couldn’t judge how close to each other they’d really hit but what he could tell was that they were close to each other in time and proximity. Which meant they had gotten their target. It would be unlikely in the extreme for both to miss in the same direction at the same time. “They got him!” Woods said to Wink, fighting the urge to do a victory roll.

  “Yeah, well, they’re going to get us in about a minute if we’re not careful. Syria has come in force, and we can’t even talk to the airplanes around us. Stay off the radio, the Major said. Fine, right. But we don’t know what the hell is going on!”

  “Relax. We’ve just got to get back to Israel.”

  “We’ve got to get back to the damned boat, Trey! We’re due to land in forty-five minutes and we’re two countries away in the middle of the biggest fur ball I’ve ever seen!”

  “We’re heading south.” Woods took in the sky around them in amazement. There were at least twenty planes, MiGs, F-15s, and F-16s, turning toward each other. Some were in afterburner, others not, some trying to escape, others trying to pursue. He didn’t see any MiGs on the tail of any Israeli, but there were plenty of MiGs in deep trouble from the fighters with the blue Star of David on their sides.

  “We’ve got to help out,” Woods said as he moved sharply to the right to head toward the fight. Approaching, he could see another cluster of planes to the west, and another farther south. He selected Sidewinder on his stick.

  Wink changed the display on his screen to show their plane in the center. The symbols showed planes, friendly and hostile, to the east, behind them. Wink turned to look, but couldn’t make any of them out.
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  Without any warning an F-15 shot up in front of them from below, with a MiG-23 following it a mile behind. Woods was sure the Eagle pilot didn’t know the MiG was behind him. He looked to his right at Big, went to military power, and pulled straight up to follow the MiG after the F-15. They were much slower than he was and he gained on the MiG quickly. His airspeed started to bleed off. He went into afterburner and pulled his nose up to the MiG, flying straight up away from the earth. He heard the hungry growl of the Sidewinder missile and pulled the trigger. He felt a slight shudder and listened to the characteristic whoosh as the missile raced off the rail and headed for the tailpipe of the Flogger. Woods’s heart pounded, as he watched the first missile he had ever fired at an airplane fly toward it with mindless dedication. Unknowing, uncaring, unmerciful, wanting only heat, and more heat. The hotter, the more intense, the more concentrated, the better.

  Woods wondered if the Syrian pilot flying the MiG knew the capabilities of the Sidewinder, knew how mean it really was, that once it locked on to your heat signature, you might as well jump out. Apparently not. The missile flew right up the tailpipe of the Flogger, disappeared in the luxurious heat of the afterburning engine, and exploded. The Flogger pitched over as if it had been pole-axed, and the pilot ejected, jettisoning his worthless airplane.

  “Boola, boola!” Woods yelled.

  “Nice shot,” Wink replied. “Belly check.”

  Woods rolled the airplane completely around, still heading straight up. No bogeys threatening. “Clear!”

  Woods pulled the Tomcat over on its back and brought the nose to the horizon. He rolled wings level, checked his instruments, and came out of afterburner.

  “Two visuals, left nine and eleven,” Wink called. “F-16s.”

  “Got ’em,” Woods replied. Four F-15s were chasing three MiG-21s trying to escape to the north. “They’re bugging out,” he reported.

  “Still a lot of them around here,” Wink said, looking at his screen. The sweat rolled down his face even though the cockpit was cool. His hand shook imperceptibly as he held the radar control handle. “Looks like a flight of four bogeys to the west, headed this way,” he said with concern in his voice. “Come starboard hard, head 275!”

  Woods came hard right, and accelerated. Big saw him turning and began his own right turn. They steadied up heading west, and climbing. Big took his place in combat spread, one and a half miles to Woods’s right, and five thousand feet below.

  Woods strained to see ahead, looking for the bogeys. “Nothing, Wink. You sure?”

  Wink looked at the screen again. “Yep. Four of ’em have broken out of the pack and are hauling east, headed right for us. Five miles ahead. Slightly right.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Woods said, concerned.

  Suddenly Big’s voice came over the radio. “Below us!”

  Woods saw four Syrian MiGs coming up for them. He pushed the nose of the Tomcat over into a negative G dive. Dirt and dust flew up from the floor of the cockpit and settled against the canopy as they went downhill. Woods and Wink floated up against their straps, as the blood in their bodies fought to get into their heads and pop blood vessels in their eyes.

  “211, come north. Bogey 020 for 45 miles, angels 12 . . .”

  “211, Judy,” Wink said hurriedly, cutting Tiger off.

  “Two Fishbeds and two Floggers!” Woods said, sweat on his face. Two MiG-21s, two MiG-23s. Not great airplanes, but good enough to kill you.

  “No other bogeys,” Wink said, his voice up half an octave. Lots of airplanes, lots of bogeys, but none that was a factor right now.

  Woods struggled to get the nose of the Tomcat on one of the MiGs. The two MiG-21s were in the lead with the MiG-23s behind them. Woods couldn’t tell if they were flying in a box formation, a difficult formation to attack, or had just ended up in the same piece of sky at the same time. Didn’t matter now. They were after him. The lead Fishbed on the left was directly in front of him, heading right for him, two miles ahead in afterburner. At least they aren’t timid, Woods thought.

  He checked to make sure Sidewinder was selected. He listened for the tone, and shot. The missile flew off at the MiG. The Fishbed saw the missile come off and immediately began a hard turn away, dropped flares, and dove for the ground. Woods watched the Sidewinder correct its flight path to compensate for the target’s movement. It caught the MiG and ripped the wing off. The MiG tumbled out of control and Woods shifted his gaze to the trailing Flogger. He smiled inside his mask, then suddenly his mouth went dry. The Flogger had radar-guided missiles, and Woods didn’t have any more Sidewinders. They couldn’t turn on their radar. They were flying right into the heart of the envelope of the Flogger’s radar missiles with no ability to shoot back. He could see the big nose, like an F-4 Phantom, with its radar probably trained on him. They could turn and run, or—“Turn on the radar, Wink!”

  “We can’t! They’ll pick it up!”

  “It’s a Flogger!” Woods yelled into his mask as he waited for a missile to come off at them. “Now!”

  “No!” Wink said. “Split S and we’ll bug out!”

  “No chance. We’re too close, too low. Turn on the radar, Wink!”

  “Let’s close on him and gun him,” Wink said, trying to think of any alternative, continuously scanning the skies for other planes. “We can’t use the radar!”

  “Turn it on!” Woods screamed. “We’re inside three miles!”

  Wink growled in his mask. “Let me do the shooting. Select Sparrow.”

  Woods’s thumb quickly slipped to the round weapon selection button on the stick and moved it to select Sparrow missiles. Wink moved the radar out of standby, chose a radar channel out of sniff, and immediately picked up the two approaching Floggers. “Geez, Trey; they’re really hauling,” he said, looking at their speed—two hundred eighty-five for three miles. “Two right, slightly low.”

  “I’ve got a tally!” Woods said. “Shoot him!”

  “Come starboard, easy,” Wink said quietly. “Steady.” His left thumb went to the red launch button on the console by his left knee. He waited until the Flogger was in the absolute heart of the head-on shot, where there would be no escape. He locked up the target with the radar, and pushed the launch button. They felt the clunk and movement of the Tomcat as the five-hundred-pound Sparrow missile dropped off the plane and its motor fired. It flew hurriedly toward its target as the Flogger shot its own missile.

  Woods brought his throttles back to idle to keep as far away as he could from the Flogger missile while their own missile flew toward its target. Woods glanced over at Big, who was flying directly at the other Flogger, but hadn’t fired a Sparrow. The Flogger shot at Big, and closed on him. Big rolled over and did a split S, pointing the nose of the Tomcat at the ground.

  Wink’s Sparrow drank in the continuous reflection of the radar energy from Flogger all the way to impact. The warhead exploded next to the Flogger and severed both wings. The plane fell toward the earth as it rolled uncontrollably.

  The missile from the other Flogger followed Big down toward the ground. The Flogger was descending, following its missile down, closing in on Big for the kill. Big leveled off at a thousand feet and pulled up and into the Flogger, heading right for him. The Flogger’s missile couldn’t make the turn and overshot Big’s Tomcat, exploding harmlessly behind him. Seeing Big coming back uphill at him, the Flogger turned hard and headed north, his big single engine in afterburner pushing him as fast as it could, his wings moving aft.

  Big turned north, climbing after him. Woods fell in behind Big, looking for other planes. Two F-16s were directly above them at twenty thousand feet chasing two MiG-21s. To the west were countless missile trails and parachutes.

  No, Big, Woods said to himself. Don’t get pulled too far north.

  But Big had no intention of flying too far north. He was going to let his Sparrow fly north for him. The missile dropped off his left wing and tore toward the fleeing Flogger. By this time the Flogger wa
s supersonic, in full flight, its wings aft.

  “Fox two, set up another one,” Wink transmitted as he watched Big’s missile pursuing the Flogger. The missile closed on the target, not nearly as fast as they expected; but just fast enough. The Sparrow flew by the Flogger ten feet away. The warhead exploded with startling speed and deadliness and cut the engine off from the rest of the plane. It broke in half and tumbled end over end, flames coming from its ruptured belly and lapping around the entire front end.

  Big turned toward the south and picked up Woods. They climbed back to ten thousand feet and checked their fuel.

  “You okay, Wink?” Woods said.

  “So far. Fuel’s okay, but we need to think about heading south.”

  “Let’s get north of the fur ball, and pick off the next one that tries to bug out north.”

  “Roger.”

  Woods turned gently left and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. He kept the biggest group of tangled fighters just to his left as he closed on them.

  “Right two o’clock! Way low!” Wink yelled. “Starboard hard!”

  Woods brought the Tomcat around to the right pulling 6 Gs. He saw the bogeys. Under Big. Two MiG-21s running from the fight. They were low and headed lower, two miles away. Big pulled up to let Woods pass underneath him, rolled over on his back, and fell in behind his section leader.

  The MiGs were only doing three hundred knots or so, but their engines were in afterburner. They had clearly decided to bug out after running out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas. They looked out of sorts, flying unevenly. Woods’s fangs were out. He wanted blood. He felt the rush of the pursuit as he aimed his Tomcat at the Fishbed on the right. Its desert camouflage paint was worn and blotchy. The Delta shaped wing seemed wrong somehow, incomplete. Suddenly he realized the plane had been hit, probably by an F-15 or F-16 cannon, the same 20-millimeter Gatling gun sitting in the Tomcat, just under his left foot.